


So Afraid

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, M/M, kylux is background only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 09:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: Techie and Matt have the best damn sex of anyone on theFinalizer.What if it's not enough?
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Clan Techie (Dredd)/Matt the Radar Technician
Comments: 7
Kudos: 132





	So Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the gorgeous art of [Lin An](https://xxxmah.tumblr.com/), I'm currently haunted by techienician, and have been indulging in a bit of twitfic over on the old twitter. This fic was specifically inspired by [this sublime art](https://twitter.com/LinAnLee/status/1092128000978477056), and...well. Here we are.
> 
> Named after [that Fleetwood Mac song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OrtLxsqSic) because...fuck you, Lindsey. Just, like, fuck _you_.

He's beautiful. One fingertip lingers just millimetres from the monitor, yearning to trace over and again the long stretch of working muscle, the divot and curve of where they rise and fall with each fierce contraction.

But he doesn't. He only watches, silent and still – until the pause lapses, and the holo begins again. The broad back flexes with each thrust, tight muscles of ass and hip working in symphonic tandem; the body beneath his shifts in perfect harmony to his chosen melody, easy duet.

The volume lies low, more vibration than sound. Easily Techie recognises his own voice, soft and shivery, crying out with every drive of those powerful hips against his own.

But Techie can't see himself in this recording. It's Matt he focuses on, unknowing subject of endless hours of holos, his massive frame slowing now as holo-Techie gasps louder.

This is tame, by their standards; Matt craves the unusual, often makes creative use of Techie's flexibility, of his own considerable physicality. But this coupling has turned gentle, calm. Techie remembers hovering upon the very precipice of pleasure for what had seemed like hours, Matt moving inside of him like the slow coming of the longest tides. The words he'd said remain hazy, but Techie knows how they'd felt. How they'd been as a cocoon around his skinny frame, comforting and transformative both.

The tears track slow down his cheeks now. He breathes in a sob, chokes on it.

He's so afraid.

The holo continues on, heedless of his distress. Matt's bulk still obstructs his own, but as he begins to thrust harder, holo-Techie's voice rises even as his breath grows shorter—

One slap of his hand, and the holo snaps to another image. It's still them, and they're still naked and entwined – at least, Matt is entirely nude. Even now, Techie can't remove his sweater, his shirt, whatever he happens to be wearing on his top half when they come together like this. Matt never complains, at least not directly. Techie still dreads the inevitable day when he will.

Holo-Techie is on his back now, contorted into a position that many might find uncomfortable, especially if expected to hold it more than a few moments. But he is encased in the great thrusting bulk of the man pressing him into the tabletop, knees to his shoulders and toes pointed like a dancer's to the sky.

This isn't tender. It's rough and hard and unforgiving, sweat tracing silvered shining spiderwebs over every exerted muscle of Matt's body. As his holo-self gasps in a battle for each breath, Techie shifts on the bed, takes his half-hard cock in hand.

He is aroused. There is no doubt of that. And yet, even as he watches his beloved Matt pound him harder and harder, Techie's dick does not quite respond the way it ought. Even when he works slick fingers over balls and across perineum, slipping the middle finger deep into his hole, it's not enough. The way he rubs index and ring fingers over his sac while the middle crooks sure against his prostate, pure echo of Matt's own favoured skill, still doesn't give him what he wants. What he needs.

With a choking sob, Techie hits the button again. The original holo blooms back to brilliant life, Matt moving in short sharp jerks as Techie begins to wail. And then – he's arching, eyes open too wide, fingers clutching blindly at Matt's bulging shoulders.

His voice is barely audible. "Mattie," he whispers, delicate, frantic. "Mattie, oh Mattie."

The recorder isn't sensitive enough to pick up that last of it. But Techie murmurs it himself as Matt thrusts through holo-Techie's orgasm, eyes closed tight, focused on nothing but the clench of Techie around his dick, on nothing but the power of his own orgasm.

"I love you, Mattie," Techie whispers, his come hot over cool skin. Matt groans, lets it fill his chest until it becomes a roar, and Techie closes his eyes, feels the usual watery overflow thicken to true tears.

"Mattie," he whispers, and goes very still. Before his bowed head, the figures in the holo fall together, tangled heap upon the bed. Eventually it flickers out without any input from him, flame starved of fuel. Only then does Techie shift, hand sticky, eyes scratchy, and his heart as heavy as a lonely singularity.

He has several privileges aboard the ship, as General Hux's strange and specialist brother. The private shower – with rationed water, even – is one of them. Techie himself rarely indulges; Matt has more of a liking for the sluicing type of shower than he does, and he's happy to leave the ration to him.

But he feels filthy, now. Unclean. Dirty. Dressed only in the thin sweater, Techie twists the handle, lets water cascade over skin and fabric both. With head tilted directly to the spray, his eyes begin to ache all the more. He doesn't care. He deserves it. Wrapping his arms about his skinny frame, trembling even in the warm flow, Techie bows his head, and wishes he could be better.

The hand on his shoulder has him spinning, slipping, a cry lodged in his throat, half-swallowed scream. This is it, this is how it ends, this—

"It's me." Matt's voice rumbles low in his naked chest, his glasses gone. "It's just me."

It's almost too easy to turn into the body crowding him against the back wall of the 'fresher. Too easy to close his eyes and lean onto him, lean naked muscle and strong hard presence.

Matt allows it, the two of them under the spray like soft new shoots under spring rain. Or at least, Techie is fragile; Matt is far more resilient, would easily weather the winters that would carry Techie away.

When he leans back, Matt raises a hand, gentles it over Techie's forehead, cards it through his hair as he presses it back; it tangles, but Matt's attention is on Techie alone. The dark eyes remain intense, deeply watchful even without his glasses.

Wordless, Techie can only watch him in return, gazing up from beneath lowered eyelashes, heavy with water. Both of Matt's hands rise now, come to press palms to his chest; beneath the touch Techie's nipples harden, his cock easily stirring beneath the hem of his dripping sweater.

"Take this off," he murmurs. The order takes Techie low, a hard blow that knocks all oxygen from him.

Immediately Matt softens, his expression contrite. "You don't have to," he says, fingertips gently bunching the fabric as he curls them inward. "I just thought it was strange. To wear it in here."

And he's never questioned Techie's wearing a shirt or sweater elsewhere. Still it hurts, even as Matt lowers his head, mouths at the pebbled nipple through the saturated fabric.

Arching his back, Techie thrusts against his lips, hands coming to soft grip upon Matt's temples. His fingers trace uncertain circles with his hair, still only when Matt shows, rests one cheek silent upon his breast.

But Matt hasn't stopped. With easy hunger he shifts his grip to hips, then ends with cheeks cupped in palm. Blunt fingers press between and into the cleft, and Matt looks up with clear surprise.

"You're loose."

His flush rises so quick as to hurt, eyes stinging. "I'm sorry, I...I just..."

His expression turns mysteiied. "Why be sorry?" One finger brushes light over his furled hole, then presses almost hard enough to slip inside. "Weren't you thinking of me?"

He shivers. As Matt's brow furrows he catches a gasping breath, something not quite a sob. "I think of no one else but you."

Approval rolls like thunder in the broad chest, and Matt's clasping his ass, raising him up so he can but a moment later settle Techie down on his dick. There's still enough lubrication from earlier that it doesn't hurt, though in truth Techie craves the pain. It's present. It's real. It means that Matt is _here_.

But the way Matt spreads his legs, centering his balance while bracing Techie upon his thighs, leaves no time for contemplation. Instead he's powering his hips upward, driving into Techie in a way that feels like a siege already lost. There's nothing for him here but Matt, his breath coming hard and his body glistening with both sweat and warm shower spray. With his arms around his waist, crushing Techie to him with the bulk of his biceps, Matt makes sure Techie's dick rubs hard between their bellies.

Between that and the rear assault, it's hardly surprising he comes first. Yet Matt doesn't stop even as Techie wails, his motion now frantic and fierce. Techie can't even come down completely from his own high, every stroke over both prostate and dick keeping him shook by endless aftershock.

One hand reaches out blindly, shuts the water off; the other still holds Techie tight. Even as Matt turns, begins to stumble towards the 'fresher, he keeps Techie close, keeps him balanced on his dick. He gropes for a towel, pushes through to the small bedroom. There he thrusts the towel at the bed, then sets Techie down and back with a gentleness unexpected from the massive body so fuelled by raging hormones.

Techie's still rocked by his own orgasm as Matt pounds his way to pleasure; when it's done, he collapses upon him in dead drowning weight. Closing his own eyes, Techie says not a word. He only gently threads his fingers through Matt's hair, cheek pressed to his belly, and wishes they could be like this forever.

*****  
  


Armitage is always very precise about what he wants. If a product does not meet his expectation, he will not shy from having it refabricated from scratch. That's not a concern Techie has; his brother had asked him for something, and he had provided it absolutely to specification. He'd known as much even before Armitage finishes his viewing with approving nod.

"This is exactly what he requires." With a swirl of his chair, he faces Techie again. "Ren will find this to be most useful."

Techie doesn't bother asking how Armitage can be so sure; he's never particularly wanted to understand the peculiar spitfire relationship Armitage shares with his co-commander. "So he's just using it to study his battle form in detail, then?"

"Well, yes." A faint line draws down his forehead. "What else would he use it for?"

The flush felt as heavy as the stone of guilt sat low in his gut. The vast and rapid improvement of Techie's tracking and recording system hadn't come through sheer programming skill alone. "I...would _you_ watch them?"

"Me? I'm not interested in Jedi form nonsense—" He pulls up sharp, gives his brother an appraising look. Then, he snorts. "Oh, you mean for _private_ use. Hells, no! Imagine the smug look on that damned face of his if he thought I couldn't go without his dick to the point I'd have to masturbate to _that_."

The amusement seems genuine, but Techie can't help but dip his head, cheeks burning with humiliation. He can hear Armitage flicking through the footage, exploring its multiple angles and analysis, and he stays silent. Keeps out of it.

"Will."

He starts, badly; one knee jumps up, smacks up against the underside of the desk with decent force. Yet he can still hide the pain with a practised expression, all innocent bewilderment.

Brothers do tend to know better. With a frown, Armitage shakes his head. "Will," he repeats, the name easy on his lips but strange in Techie's ears; no one else ever uses it. Not even Matt.

"Will." One last time. "You seem...quiet, as of late."

Biting against his lower lip, he shakes his head while still not meeting Armitage's gaze. "I'm fine," he murmurs, and Armitage sighs.

"Is it Matt? Because if he has hurt you, I can have Ren dispose of him in some thoroughly unpleasant manner. I might even stoop to supervise. Give me the word, and it is done."

"No!" When Techie looks up, he's met by fierce scowl. Armitage has never cared overly for Matt, or his association with his brother. Considering Matt's odd resemblance to Armitage's own deeply questionable fuck buddy, under other circumstances Techie might have found that funny. But now...

"He's good to me." Swallowing hard, he keeps his voice even. "I'd tell you if he wasn't."

Convincing Armitage of anything is never so simple. And yet he lets it go, though Techie knows it will be but brief reprieve. Not that it matters. Matt will one day tire of him, realise he can do so much better than a broken beaten-down basketcase like Techie. He's big and bold and beautiful, and Techie knows in his heart that Matt deserves better. That he will find better.

But as Techie silently watches his brother observe the holo of Kylo Ren moving in murderous monstrous dance, he knows that he will never let anyone hurt Matt. Not for him. Not for anything. It's just pure luck that Techie has held him this long. He'll make Armitage understand that, make him keep Kylo Ren tight on whatever leash he's managed to string between them.

Matt _will_ break his heart. But Techie knows that it's nobody's fault but his own. He always has work to do. It's not that his brother overworks him; in truth, Armitage likely wants him to work less. The protectiveness induced by his rescue of Techie from years of abuse is both comforting and terrifying. Not that he'd ever admit as much to Armitage. The fallout from that would likely end with him wrapped in a protective carbonite casing for the rest of his life.

But due to said work, he sees Matt only rarely, and only in their shared quarters. Much as he knows he ought to be more readily available to his boyfriend, he still fears being thought of as useless, as only kept around due to genetic relation to the ship's ranking military officer. His mind still takes glee in whispering that Matt will be bored, Matt will desire company, Matt will so easily find intimate companionship elsewhere if Techie isn't there to provide it.

And in the contrary way of the universe, when Techie feels safe enough in his work to take a proper break, he returns to quarters to find a note from Matt. The typed words, as brief and contorted as his manner of speech, say he has been called away to an urgent repair detail. As he stands there, arms curled around thin chest and spine hunched forward, he wonders if this is it. If this is the beginning of the end.

Drifting across the small antechamber, anchorless, rootless, he finds himself in the smaller bedroom. Entirely dominated by a bed just barely large enough to accommodate Matt's sheer bulk and their combined height, there's little else of note. Neither of them have been inclined to knick knacks, to little personal items. Techie has his little wire models, but ever since a stray one in the sheets had poked Matt in a most inauspicious place at a most inopportune moment, they've been kept anywhere but in here.

There's still a datapad on the bed, one of but many Techie has networked together. Without clear thought he shucks his trousers, not needing to bother with underclothes he never wears. Then he's on his back and on the bed, random holo flashing up as he takes his dick in hand. Without lubricant, it's hardly the most pleasant hardening, but he wants the pain. It makes it easier to bear. Besides, the leaking of his eyes is all the wetness he can stand right now. The actual acts in the holo hardly register; the fierce longing of his arousal comes from a different place entirely. The voice of his holo-self, high and gasping, mingles with the low animalistic sounds Matt makes as he has his way, and Techie closes his eyes, jerks harder at his weeping cock.

"...what are you doing?"

That is not the Matt in the holo. With horror set aflame in his blood, Techie opens his eyes, fingers clenched too tight, the pain level moving from welcome to intolerable.

Matt's dressed in his usual work clothes, Techie notes with dim hopelessness. At least he had tried to uphold the illusion. To pretend for Techie's sake that there is no other. That—

"Are you..." His voice trails off, eyes creasing behind his glasses. In the silence between them, the sound of the holo grates on his ears, the holo Techie's wordless cries almost pitiful. On his hands and knees, back arched, he's thin and strange; Matt looms, palms cupping hips as he crouches behind him, using the force of his entire bodyweight to drive his dick as deep as it will go.

"Where did you get this?" But he waits for no answer. "You made it. When? Why?"

Wilting under the intensity of that dark gaze, Techie turns his eyes down. Thankfully he's dropped his dick, and now curls aching fingers in the hem of his shirt, pulling it down in vague unsuccessful effort to cover his shame.

"I'm sorry." Thick and liquid, his voice barely raises above a whisper. "I didn't...I just..."

"Is this the only one?"

He tries to draw a breath into spasming lungs; it becomes ragged sob instead. "I...I didn't mean..."

It's over, then. All of it. Drawing up his knees, pressing his hot forehead to them as he curls arms about skinny shins, he begins to cry. He knows it's weak. He knows it's foolish. But he can't help himself. Can't save himself, not even a little bit.

When the bed at his side bows down under fresh weight, he can't help surprise. He'd simply assumed Matt would go, and that would be it. But he's still here, and somehow that's worse. To know that if he looks up, he'll see writ upon that dear face disgust, perhaps pity, and—

"Hey." The awkward hand on his shoulder burns. "Hey, I don't...what's wrong?"

It startles him enough that he looks up without remembering his fear of but scant moments before. "Wrong?" His laugh turns choked. "Why are you dragging this out? Why can't you just _go_?"

He rears back as if slapped, eyes wide and hurt in a way that only amplifies Techie's own agony. "Is...is that what you want?" Hoarse now, with both hands in his lap and twisting now together, Matt's throat bobs once, twice, and again. "You want me to go?"

If he had the slightest shred of honour, of basic decency, he would make this easy for him.

"No!"

"Then what _do_ you want?"

He's always been blunt; that in itself isn't what hurts. He can't speak. His throat has turned tight and hard and—

Reaching over, Matt switches off the holo. The same hand then cups his cheek, and Techie flinches beneath the warmth, tries not to lean helplessly into it. Pressing his lips together, Matt slowly shakes his head.

"Have I..." His voice trails off, face shifting expressions with alarming speed. Techie understands it, though: Matt has a temper, though Techie has only rarely enough seen it himself. He's fighting back the urge to get angry, to be physical, to let it all go in one violent outburst.

"I'll delete them all, if you want." His voice creaks like a rusted door swinging closed for the last time. "I just...I only wanted something to remember you by."

"_Remember_ me by?" The fury has evaporated as quickly as it had appeared, Matt now in a state of pure confusion. "So you _do_ want me to go?"

"No." He feels very small, and so very sad. "I realise...I know I'm not enough for you. That you'll find someone better, one day. Soon. I won't stop you—"

"_Stop_." Both hands press to his cheeks, hard enough that Techie can't move his jaw to speak. But even without that, he would have fallen silent: because Matt's expression is so crestfallen, so heartbroken, that it feels as though Techie's entire world has ground to complete halt.

"How could anyone be better?" Matt has never wept in front of Techie. As far as Techie knows, Matt may never have cried before at all. But his eyes are wet now as he leans forward, as he presses their foreheads together. The glasses jostle awkward between them, but Techie in truth sees nothing else but him.

"I've never wanted anyone else like this before," he says, and draws a shaking breath. "Maybe I've never truly wanted anyone else, but you."

"Mattie—"

"Hush," he says, heartbreaking in its gentleness. "I've been so stupid."

"No," and he's the one crying now, tears spilling over his cheeks, converging there to drip down as one. "No, _I'm_ the stupid—"

Matt kisses him. It's too sudden and awkward and messy, with their teeth clacking together and his glasses knocked askew. None of that matters. The sheer strength of it leaves him dizzy, breathless, boneless beneath his bulk.

"I thought you knew." The wonder cuts like a blade, smooth and deep. "I thought...you're so beautiful. So responsive. I did everything I could think of to bring you pleasure. To show how much I wanted you to be happy."

Falling into him, Techie wraps his arms around his shoulders, presses tight against him with face buried deep in the space between neck and shoulder. He smells faintly of ozone, of oil and of metal; with a hiccup, he clears his throat enough to speak.

"You did make me happy." Then he shakes his head, spits out the tangled hair that gets caught up in his mouth. "You _do_ make me happy. So happy. I just thought..."

The words are rough, but the big hands are gentle where they press upon the small of his back. "Thought what?"

His voice is so small, there's barely enough of it left to break. "You've never said you love me."

Matt rears back, stares at him with massive eyes, glasses haphazard on his strange oversize beloved nose. "You didn't _know_?"

"You never said." It sounds so stupid, so painfully silly. Still he says it out loud. "And...and you never use my name."

Wide lips pull down at their corners, but before he can protest, Techie pushes frantically on.

"In the beginning, you called me Techie. Like everyone else. But then...you stopped. You never said it during…while we...." His fingers tangle so tight in the hem of his shirt that he knows he's cutting the circulation off. "I just figured...I thought maybe you were just thinking of somebody else—"

"Never!" It's not quite a roar, but Matt is up on his knees, palms on his shoulders, words spilling out in desperate flood. "I just...I couldn't call you that. Not after I knew you." He’s ashamed and embarrassed and looks as though he’s taken terrible fright. "It's...not right. To call you that."

"...call me what?"

"_Techie_." The way his tongue calls around it makes him flinch, as if his speaking it aloud has transformed it to hateful slur. "_They_ gave it to you. Those people who _hurt_ you. Those people who nearly broke you." And now his anger is a brilliant thing, radiating from him like ionised plasma, somehow beautiful. "You deserve better."

The spinning of his head, his thoughts, makes it so hard to see proper sense. "...I...I do have another name."

"It belongs to your brother." Unhappiness leaks from every pore, shoulders slumping forward. "I didn't want to presume."

Everything escapes him all in a rush, and he falls forward, caught by Matt's instinctive embrace. He should be crying. But he's not. He's _laughing_. Or maybe it's both. It doesn't seem to matter either way, because Matt's holding him close and holding him near and nothing else should matter ever again.

"Oh, Mattie," he wheezes, fingers digging tight into the firm muscle at his waist. "Mattie...that's not it. It never was."

"But—"

"It's been my name for so long, I don't see it like that." Glancing up, he chooses to blow stray hair from his blotchy face instead of letting Matt go; when it fails miserably, Matt's tender fingers take over the motion instead. "I know Armitage...well. Armitage. He does what he likes. Because to him, whatever he likes _is_ whatever is best."

Matt snorts at that, but doesn't refute it. Not that he could. Anyone aboard the Finalizer for more than twenty minutes learns that truth.

All falls quiet between them, now. It's not necessarily a bad thing; there's nothing uncomfortable in it. But this lack of effective communication between them says a lot for how they got here, and Techie's opening his mouth when Matt beats him to it.

"I'm not good at this." He rubs at his head, mouth twisted in unhappy knot. "I just always thought I could show you." Now his attention turns to Techie's sweater, eyes damp. "I just...every time I said you could take it off. I thought I was telling you, you could be. Safe. With me." The great shoulders hunch forward, face hidden. "But it sounded like an order. Didn't it. Like I didn't really care. If it hurt you."

Without thought, Techie wraps his arms around him, draws him close -- as if his skinny frame could ever be enough to shield Matt against the world. But Matt moves into him with perfect trust, with aching longing.

"I didn't understand." His fingers dig deep as Matt shudders with something close to a sob. "I thought I wasn't doing right by you. That you wanted and deserved someone who could be naked with you. Could give you what you needed."

"I—"

Pressing two fingers against his lips, Techie closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Both of us messed up. Okay?"

The stiffness of his body suggests he wants nothing more than to protest. He doesn't. "…okay."

"We just need..." Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes, leans back. "...to talk." But his fingers fidget at the hem of his sweater. "Or maybe we've done enough of that. For now, anyway."

"Techie—"

He can't overthink this. He can't wait. Techie bites his lip, then bites the unseen bullet and pulls his sweater up and over his head and away. Nothing happens. The galaxy doesn't implode. The universe doesn't stop turning. He's simply shirtless and silent in front of the man he would give everything to, and nothing has changed at all.

But that's not entirely true. Matt's hands come to his shoulders, their eyes meeting in silent request. Techie grants it, wordlessly turning on the bed. The shivers, he can't contain. He doesn't even try to. And he can't help the quiet gasp when Matt reaches out, grazes fingertips so gently over the spiderweb of scars etched into the fabric of his skin.

"I would kill all of them." As a vow, the quiet words pulse with rage, crimson and violent and burning. "Every single one of them. For what they've done to you."

"It doesn't matter, now," he says, even though it's not true. The nightmares will never stop. The fear will never truly go away. But as he turns now, as he puts his arms around Matt's neck and presses their foreheads together, it's no lie to say, too, "All that matters now is everything you've ever done for me."

There's no real way to tell if this is what they should be doing now, as they come together in a desperate kiss that already promises so much more than merely that. Yet this is painfully new territory for them both. And whatever else it is, it feels _right_. To go from the physical to the verbal, to fall down upon the bed together, to use their bodies to emphasise what has been said, rather than substitute for it entirely.

It's only when they're both entirely nude, trading kisses with legs tangled as they lay side by side, that Matt pauses. But no fear coils in his gut, now, as Techie raises a hand and trails his fingers down one sweat-sheened biceps.

"...Mattie?"

For a second, he looks almost ashamed. Yet as he braces himself upon one elbow, braves strange new territory, the expression washes away.

"I...would like something. From you."

It's a blank cheque he would write no one else. Not even Armitage. "Anything."

"Could you..." The flush comes insidious, but steady. "Would you. Want."

He frowns a little, brushing Matt's damp curls away from his hot forehead. "Mattie—"

"Fuck me!" It comes out as a yell, and Techie can't help but flinch back. Matt has turned purple, horrified and yet determined. "I want...you. I want--"

"I'll fuck you," he whispers, even though he never has before, even though he's not even sure he knows how. But he's giddy with it – with the trust. With the power. With the _love_.

And he leans down, kisses him. Strangely, for all the increasingly creative things they've done together, Techie now realizes he has no idea how Matt would actually want this to happen for him. Sitting back on his heels, still far more comfortable with showing his chest than his mangled back, he pushes his hair out of his eyes and surveys Matt's body, sprawled before him like a feast only he'll ever be able to enjoy this way.

"Have you ever—"

"No." Though embarrassment clearly lingers yet, his flush is almost all arousal now. "No one ever. Thought about it. I guess. And I never. Asked."

Leaning forward, thighs either side of his torso, his own hard cock pressing between their bellies even as Matt's presses up against his ass, Techie presses an oddly chaste kiss to his lips. "You can have anything you want, with me," he murmurs. "So...what do you want?"

His throat works, and for all his mass he appears strangely vulnerable. "Will you...kiss me. There."

And he laughs. "I'll fucking devour you," he promises, and he's shimmying down his body, pushing his hips over, pushing his face between those hard muscled cheeks before either of them can reconsider a thing.

The taste is – somewhat unexpected. A bit musky, almost earthy. And it's warm, the spasming muscle odd against the thrust of his tongue. He's drooling, too, then dribbling as he gets too enthusiastic about lubrication, but Matt doesn't seem to give a damn about his inexperience. Already he's rocking back – a little too hard; Techie hates to think of what Armitage might say if he turns up with a broken nose or two blackseyes, courtesy of Matt's magnificent ass – but this is a place for them alone.

"Techie," he gasps, entire body moving in sinuous twist. "Techie, please...!"

It feels too soon, but then – the first time they'd fucked, they'd gone from awkward kissing to Matt plowing him over the calcinator housing in probably less than five minutes. Techie's still a little doubtful as he retrieves the lube, surveying Matt splayed out now on his back, chest heaving, hands fisted in the sheets. He really wants nothing more than to sink his sharp little teeth into those tits, but it's Mattie he needs to think of first.

"They say it's easier, to be on your stomach the first time—"

"No." He sits up long enough to take the lube, coating three thick fingers in it before flopping back. "I want to see your face. When I come on your dick."

He's choking on the image himself, but just barely manages: "Mattie—"

Without warning, Matt thrusts three thick fingers into his ass. Hard. Deep. At Techie's wide eyed gasp, he laughs around his own laboured breathing.

"I've done this much before," he pants, pupils blown, eyes dark as a singularity. "And every time – I've only ever thought of _you_."

Techie's on him in a second, dick aching, scrabbling for the lube even as Matt's arm is trapped hard between them, fingers still up his own ass and blunt thumb working the perineum. They perhaps should slow down, should take this easier, should be more careful. But Matt's hand closes over his own, hard and wet around his dick, and then he's sliding him, guiding him in, and it's—

It's coming home. It's finding shelter. It's taking anchor. But he's still moving, hips snapping forward even as Matt thrusts his pelvis up to draw him deeper, and it's—

It's _everything_.

And even when it is over, when they're lying quiet together, the heat and the arousal and the desperation sated, it's—

It's everything he ever wanted.

It's everything he'll ever need.

Matt's whispered words shimmer over his skin like fresh stardust, bright and sure. "Techie. I love you." A pause, and then: “…did you record that? Because…I might. Want a copy. For later.”

Techie’s laughing, crying, rolling over onto him as he says, “No. But we can do a replay, if you’re up for it?”

And the hardness under his questing fingers indicates that yes. Matt very much is up for this. Again and again and again.


End file.
